Page 2 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
Her bottom lip trembles slightly when my gaze glides from the license in my hand back to her. Her large eyes are lined with black kohl that flicks up at the outer corners, and her lips bear the remnants of a cherry-red stain that probably wore off hours ago. She looks oddly—interestingly—vintage. Her white dress clings to her waist and flares out at the hips. Her dark hair has been bleached to the tips and curled in the style of Marilyn Monroe. There’s even a crystal comb above her ear that looks just like the one my nonna used to wear.
Without another word, I hand the license back to her and shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks. Her lip’s still trembling, yet there’s a defiance in her expression as she tips her chin upward.
“Did it tell you what you needed to know?”
I wipe the beginning of a smirk from my mouth with a rough thumb. “For now.”
She straightens her shoulders, and her bleached hair bobs about her face like cotton candy. “Well then.” She goes to step past me. “It was nice meeting you.”
She’s implying I was on my way out, and I can’t tell if she’s feeling hopeful about it or regretful, which annoys me, because I can usually read people effortlessly. Managing casinos for the best part of ten years has delivered me an unrivaled education in human behavior.
“I wasn’t leaving,” I lie. “I was going to the restroom.”
Her cheeks flush again. “Well, this is the ladies’ restroom.” She nods to the other side of the room. “The men’s is over there.”
I run my tongue across my teeth, taking my long-ass time about it, and enjoy her obvious discomfort. Then I lazily cock a brow. “Thanks.”
She tugs the bag higher up her shoulder, turns, and walks clumsily back to the bar.
I silently curse my decision to stay as I head to the restroom. I was hoping to spend an early-ish, quiet night in my Tribeca apartment, lying low for a few hours longer, but for reasons I won’t try to understand, I don’t want to give this girl the satisfaction of a reprieve.
I reach the door and look over my shoulder. She’s talking to the bartender, and even from the far corner of the room I can see his cheeks flushing and his eyes lighting up. She sits haphazardly on a stool in front of him and then somehow manages to slide right off the other end, landing in a heap on the floor.
I find it hard to believe she’s a regular drinker, because she has no tolerance for it at all.
Three grown men rush to her aid and hoist her up.
When she’s back on the stool, she turns her head slightly until she can see me out of the corner of her eye. Embarrassment burns up those pretty cheeks. I save her from further mortification by walking straight into the restroom.
The door closes behind me, drowning out the thick bass of “Sinister Kid” by The Black Keys, which thankfully makes the voice in my head clearer.
One week, Cristiano.
That’s all I’m here for. To lay Father to rest, congratulate my brother on his new title, and tie up a few loose ends. Then I’ll fly back to Vegas, never to return to this coast again. I’ll have no reason to. Mama died ten years ago, Papa has gone, and my brother has taken on the top job—one that’s bound to keep him far too busy to be bothered with surviving relatives. Sure, we have other family members in the city, but they’re more than happy to vacation in one of my casino hotels; I don’t need to be in New York to stay in touch.
The bottom line is, I’m not sticking around, so there’s no point in making nice with a random woman I just met in a questionable bar, no matter how much she intrigues me.
I emerge from the restroom in time to see the bartender push a cocktail glass into her hand: a bright blue concoction topped with a curl of orange peel and a paper umbrella. Her gaze drifts to the man at her side, then her lids lift, and our eyes lock. My breath sticks in my throat.
She’s sitting a good fifteen feet away, but I can see the color of her irises. Turquoise, like the Atlantic.
I walk to the other end of the bar and slide onto a stool.
The bartender looks up, his expression bordering on cocky. “You gonna have a real drink now?”
I wrap a hand around my neck and rub. My life in Vegas is hardly stress-free, but being back in this city makes me feel tighter than a wound spring. “Whiskey. Neat.”
“Coming right up.”
He pours two fingers and places the glass on a coaster. “So, where are you visiting from?”
“Who says I’m visiting?”
He huffs out a laugh, narrowing my eyes. “Our clientele is pretty steady. I haven’t seen you here before, and don’t take this the wrong way, but ...”
My eyes narrow further. Whenever anyone says that, there’s never a right way to take it.
“But?”
